Too much reading?

Here is a question:

Can you read too much? Is there such a thing?

Isn't that sort of like doing "too much charity work" or being "too nice" or "too pretty"?

Reading is not only fun, it's educational and whatnot. Who ever says "You learn too much! Stop learning things."

No one, that's who.

But then, people say, "Everything in moderation."

Does that mean I have to be moderate in my reading? Is it selfish of me to read? If the world was ending and I just sat on my couch and read would I be crossing a line?

I really want to know. Please tell me what you think.

Harper Lee's New Novel...Please contain your excitement.

I read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time a few years ago when I had to teach it to my sophomore class. I was (and still am) in awe of Atticus - not because he was the perfect parent, but because he was so human and natural with his children. I remember thinking that if I ever became a parent, I wanted to be like Atticus. Except I wanted my children to call me mom, not by my first name.

A few months ago I heard the delightful news that Harper Lee had been harboring a sequel, a book that was actually written before To Kill a Mockingbird, but which takes place after the events in To Kill a Mockingbird.

The good news is we don't have to wait too long either (I mean other than the 55 years we had to wait already...) -- the book is scheduled to be published in July.

For more info, listen to or read this snippet from All Things Considered.

So just how excited are you about this? Let me know in the comments.

An Update in Reading

This month has been so busy that routine, along with all of the wonderful things that routine maintains including laundry and blog posting, has disappeared from my life completely.
Not surprisingly, I've still managed to read a few books. Because that's the second to the last thing to go (the last thing would obviously be breathing).
So here is a quick survey of my reading last month:

The Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes, 4 stars. This is the first comic book/graphic novel that I've ever read! Reading comic books is difficult for me. My mind keeps trying to create the setting, the mood, to draw the characters and it gropes for information about these details - "Why is there so much dialogue! Why won't they stop and tell me where they are and what the air smells like and what the weather is doing?" Then I remember that it's all in a picture behind the words. So weird. But eventually I got into a good rhythm and didn't have to remind myself to slow down and look at the pictures. When I finished this collection, I had a few thoughts: That was a weird place to stop the story. Holy cannoli that was gruesome and creepy. There might have been a few sections that were pure genius. I wasn't instantly enthusiastic about it. I had to let it stew in my brain. I had to strain out the gruesome (I'm not prudish usually about violence, but for some reason, probably since there were pictures, it creeped me out) and absorb the great. Because there were two issues (I think they are called issues?) that Blew. My. Mind. One of them was an issue that switches to the point of view of a very minor character, a waitress at a diner who is a writer. She sees her customers as fuel for her writing. That's all I will say, but if you only read one issue, that would be the one to read. Neil Gaiman is extraordinary. If I was still teaching, I would seriously consider adding a lesson where we analyzed one or two issues of this text.

Anne of Green Gables, 5 billion stars. (The exaggeration is in in honor of Anne, of course.) I never realized that L.M. Montgomery was one of my favorite authors until a week ago. I got a sudden urge to reread Anne of Green Gables and now all I want to do is read Anne of Green Gables or watch Anne of Green Gables. Also, I plan on moving to Prince Edward Island. Seriously. My husband said he would do it.

Carry On Warrior, 3 stars. I can't enjoy nonfiction as much as fiction and so I always find it difficult to rate and recommend and talk about at all. Also, I have a weird voice in my head that is super judgmental when I read nonfiction. I haven't the slightest idea why. Anyway, this book was pretty hilarious, especially the anecdotes about the author and her children. I know it's cliche of me to enjoy reading about how a child threw a temper tantrum at Target just because I too may one day get to experience that joy, but what can I say, it's funnier on this side of things. The author of this text, Glennon Doyle Melton, is well known for her brutal honesty. I found this very refreshing and challenging. Sure, she had some ideas that were strange and that I disagreed with (which the voice in my head demands that I tell you), but I'd totally be friends with her. I read a review on Goodreads that said the prose was terrible. It wasn't. It was really funny. It was blog-prose or thinking-out-loud prose. But it worked for the book stylistically.

What are you reading currently?

"I don't care how well it's written, I only care if it's a good story."

These words were uttered by a man I spent an entire day with, but will likely never see again. Mr. Greenberg was a teacher at summer school and I was taking classes to get my teaching credential. He graciously allowed me to sit and observe in his classroom. I took away two things that day that have stuck with me: an interest in Doctor Who, and the quote mentioned above.

We were talking books during one of the breaks the kids get. Of course we were talking books. I was an English major on my way to becoming an English teacher. He was a writer and an English teacher. It was only natural that this discussion occupied our time. I don't know what prompted this comment from Mr. Greenberg. I think I was flexing my English-major muscles and made a negative comment about a new release that was getting lots of love from everyone.

So I was a little chastised when he said, "I don't care how well a book is written; I only care if it's a good story."

To this day I can't decide if I agree with him. I've read some books with an interesting story and awful prose, and some books with beautiful prose and a yawn-inducing plot. I prefer the books that have both an interesting story and beautiful prose. But I see what he was saying. Some books seem to be written for English majors - who else would willingly sit through Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49? If you haven't read that gem, I can't even summarize the story for you because nothing really happens. I'm not kidding. There is a girl who is crazy and believes she has uncovered a conspiracy. She runs around discovering or imagining or projecting proof of this conspiracy. At the end of the book, you don't know if the conspiracy is real or if she is imagining it because she is crazy. But the prose is excellent. Very artistic and whatnot.

When I'm honest with myself, I don't want to read books like The Crying of Lot 49. I want to read books like The Lord of the Rings, or The Blue Castle, or Harry Potter, or anything by Mark Twain. Because those are really great stories.

Incidentally, they are also well written.

Which brings me to the other half of the equation: Books that are written poorly, but are great stories.

I'm reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo right now. (No spoilers, please, because I did just start it.) This novel has been raved about by tons of people, even fellow English teachers. Sadly, the prose is meh. True, this is quite possibly due to the translation, not the author himself. But it detracts from my experience. However riveted I am by the characters and the plot, the prose is awkwardly blunt, choppy, and has excessive chunks of exposition. So far, I am intrigued and I think I can safely say that I will really like it. But somehow the story doesn't feel complete without good, solid prose, perhaps a well-selected metaphor or a bit of elegant description.

So, Mr. Greenberg, I think I disagree with you. Story is arguably more important than how the story is told. But I'd say story is more like 60%, prose 40%, not story 100%, prose nil.

What do you think?

Pride and Prejudice: My first time

When I was a child, my method for choosing what to read was to go to the library and read every book by an author that I already knew I liked.

Obviously, this was a flawed method because I ran out of books pretty quickly.

If I wasn't already familiar with an author, I approached a new book like I might a strange dog. I would look at it carefully. I would read the back of the book, the inside flap, maybe scan a few pages, ready to drop it and run at the slightest sign of something I didn't like. I had to get a feel for the book, and it had to feel right. Otherwise I wouldn't read it. I turned away from the tawdry romances with their ubiquitous shirtless Fabios, and the garish covers of mystery novels, usually sporting some kind of intriguing trinket on a purple cover with yellow text, and many of the juvenile contemporary young adult novels that showed a photograph of a depressed teenager. I knew these were not the books for me; they didn't feel right. I wasn't interested in them - I felt I already knew all their secrets. Or that their secrets weren't worth knowing.

But if I was ever going to find new authors, risks had to be taken. I still remember the first Jane Austen novel I read. Inadvertently, I began with her most popular work, Pride and Prejudice. The copy I stumbled across was a red book, with gold lettering, the kind that comes in those fancy library collections where all the books match. I know it came from a collection such as this because the book was at my grandparents house, buried amidst other classics like Don Quixote and War and Peace.

I was probably only twelve at the time, though that sounds young, I couldn't have been much older because my mom was pregnant with my younger sister and my older sister and I had been sent to stay at my grandparents house for two weeks because we'd been exposed to the chicken pox and had to be sent away since my mother had never had them.

I can't stress how bored I was. So. Bored. It wasn't my grandparents' fault. They were enjoying their retirement and hadn't had kids around in years. They had a strict routine that involved working out before the sun was up, eating small portions of vegetables and cottage cheese, and falling asleep on the couch at 7 pm watching PBS.

I could have read any of the books on that shelf and I don't remember why I chose to look at Pride and Prejudice. Deprived of any picture on the front, any writing on the back cover, and no book jacket with helpful hints, I didn't have much to go on. I opened it and read a few lines. And didn't put it down. I remember a few chapters later thinking, How did I not know about this book or this author? By that time my father had already read us a few Dickens' novels, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Wilke Collins, so it was a genuine question.

The wonderful thing about reading Pride and Prejudice so young was that I was truly taken in by the novel. When Darcy proposed to Elizabeth I was shocked. I hated him; I'd even pictured him like one of my classic ugly bad guys. Kind of like Gaston. Then when Elizabeth started falling for him I was gradually won over. I'm pretty sure I stopped reading and mentally changed his appearance to be more fitting of his new role as lead man.

That first read, I really experienced Darcy the way Elizabeth did. I'm not sure many people get to experience Pride and Prejudice like that, because most people know all about it before they read it and because most people bring some amount of maturity to the book and aren't fooled when Elizabeth despises him. If I read the book now, I know I would have identified Darcy right off the bat as the guy. After all, he was the richest and Austen, I learned later as I devoured all 6 and a half of her books, is all about the happy endings.

What about you? Did you know Darcy was the guy right from the beginning? Were you fooled along with Elizabeth? When did you first read the book?

The Ordinary Princess

Despite my last post, I didn’t realize how personal it could be to write about favorite childhood books until I sat down to write this post. It’s hard to explain why you loved a book as a child without dredging up childhood insecurities and idiosyncrasies.

So here you are: a book recommendation and a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

One of my favorite books growing up was The Ordinary Princess by M.M.Kaye. I got it from the library and had one of those magical experiences where the book was everything I wanted it to be and more.

Two things you should know about this book:

1. It has beautiful illustrations (see above).

2. The prose is charming.

Why did I love this book as a child? I loved this book because it is all about an ordinary princess.  I had quite the ugly duckling complex as a child. I really didn't think much of my physical appearance. I felt like my older sister was the “pretty one” and I was the “smart one.” Who knows if I made this up in my head or picked this up from the small comments adults make in passing that children end up keeping in the deepest places of their hearts? But however it was that I ended up with this complex, I was enamored with Princess Amy because all of her sisters were beautiful and she was not. 

She tore her dresses and got freckles from sitting out in the sun. 

She had mousy hair. 

She was clumsy.

And she was special. Even though she wasn’t pretty and didn’t behave like a proper princess, she had a grand adventure and eventually found love, someone who thought she was beautiful just the way she was, inside and out.

I suspect that I am not the only little girl in the world to feel unattractive and unfeminine. I think my complex was and is far more universal than my solipsistic little self realized at the time. With that in mind, I highly recommend this classic tale of the conflict between inner and outer beauty, social and personal expectations, and the need for acceptance. It is an excellent book for ordinary princesses of all ages.

Books We Read as Children, Part One

When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.” Kathleen Kelly, You’ve Got Mail

If you want animated conversation with a reader, ask them what books they read as a child. Invariably, their face will light up as they chronicle the books they read when they were young - sometimes completely random books that you’ve never heard of, other times classic stories that you remember reading as well.

Mind, this only works for people who have been readers from a young age. Ask the average freshman what they read when they were kids and they will stare at you blankly and mutter something about Dr. Seuss (a very good writer, I must add).

There are three strange things about favorite childhood books:

1: The books that one person claims are phenomenal, one of their favorites from childhood, a classic, are oftentimes books not many other people recognize.

2: These books will be vehemently defended by these people as wonderful books, even when other people, who are adults, read them and fail to see many (or any) redeeming qualities.

3: Therefore, it can be inferred there is some kind of magical bond that occurs when one is young and falling in love with a book, and that due to this bond, quality does not matter. 

I’m sure you have your own books that you love and reread now as an adult with fond sentimentality. For me, these books are The Blue Castle, The Blue Sword (no, these aren’t part of a series and are in two completely different genres), and The Ordinary Princess, among others.

Note my obvious penchant for novels with blue in the title.

Anyway, I recently read The Blue Castle to my husband. He agreed that it was funny, but told me, “it’s pretty much a romance.”

“No, it’s not,” I defended angrily. “It’s so funny, and it’s really about how the character changes and gets her dream life and doesn’t let her family control her any more…” my voice trailed away while my husband waited patiently.  A pause. “Okay, it’s a romance.”

The truth is, The Blue Castle, written by L.M. Montgomery, beloved author of Anne of Green Gables, is more or less a young adult romance. But to me it was so much more. When I read it as a child, the main character reminded me of the way I could be sometimes: timid, easily cowed, submissive to a fault, and dissatisfied with her life (most teens are dissatisfied with their life at one time or another). Then the character changes. She becomes bold and goes after the life she wants. That was inspiring to me as a child, and still is, really. That book became a reminder of all that I was capable of doing.

So when I read it again, and again, and again as an adult, I didn’t necessarily see the framework of any particular genre; I saw the girl I was when I first read it, remembered how I responded to it the first time I finished it (the ending is just delightful). I saw past me and present me and future me in that slim little book. I saw the flaws I struggled with then, the weaknesses I still struggle with, and all that I’ve overcome.

Years ago, a friend asked me a question dreaded by all book lovers:

“What is your favorite book?”

Groan. He noticed my dismay and quickly added, “What book do you find yourself rereading over and over?”

I’m a fairly private person and so I’m still surprised that I didn’t answer vaguely or give some scholarly answer like “Jane Austen books.” I think part of me didn't want to make myself appear more scholarly than I actually am. I was an English major and love classic authors like Dickens and Twain, so it would have been easy to put on a facade of sophistication - twirling my non-existent mustache and saying, “well it’s a toss up between Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Dickens’ Great Expectations, my good man.”

But it wasn’t true. In a moment of unexpected honesty, I replied, “The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery.”

My friend raised an eyebrow. “Really? That surprises me,” he said, rather unnecessarily. Then he got pulled away by someone and I was left feeling a bit deflated.

The truth is, everyone is a bit surprised by the books that have the most profound impact on other people because, to quote Edmund Wilson, “no two persons ever read the same book.” No matter how close you are to a friend or family member, you might not always fully understand why they have a bond with their favorite books. 

Why those books spoke into their life in a quiet way.

Why they saw in that book a mirror, or a vision, or a dream.

So as much as I love to discuss books and recommend books and read books that my friends are reading, I know deep down that there is a part of my reading experience that is only mine. 

Which is quite possibly the reason I keep reading.

***********

Over the next few days and weeks I'm going to venture back into the dusty cobwebs of the books I loved as a child and share them with you on this blog. I'd love to hear in the comments what some of your favorites were as a child.

A bookmark without a home

Today I finished Assassin's Apprentice, the first book of a fantasy series written by Robin Hobb. It was a fantastic finale, a nail-biter to the end, and I teared up in just the last few sentences.

Once I closed the book, I noticed my bookmark, sitting there on the couch...and I had no idea what to do with it. Where do you store a bookmark if not in a book? I am one of those people who has to have a place for everything, so this was a serious problem. I didn't want it on my nightstand, it didn't feel right in my drawer with my notebook and Bible, it couldn't just sit out on top of a random book.

It was quite the conundrum. I finally just decided I'd have to start another book immediately so I'd have a place to keep it.

But now I want to know: Where do you store your bookmarks?

That way I can have a backup plan in case my bookmark becomes homeless again.

For all my book-sniffing friends (you know who you are!)

Nymag.com has a list of reasons to love New York, including...

16. Because We’re Home to Not Only the Publishing Industry But Also to a Woman Who Spends Her Days Smelling Books

I think you know that books have captivated you in a unique way when you start smelling them. I think you can also tell who was raised with lots of books (or went to the library and bookstores a lot as a kid) based on rather or not they love the smell of books. It's like when people love the smell of apple pie because it reminds them of home. Why should book smelling be any different?

I still remember recognizing the smell of our local bookstore when we lived in a small town in Northern California. I was very young, so I can't picture the store very well, just a few odd shelves and parts of the children's section; but I remember recognizing that comforting smell as soon as I walked in the door - and loving it.

Not all bookstores smell great, and they don't all smell the same. We moved out of Northern California when I was around 8, and we found a new local bookstore. I still visit this bookstore on a regular basis. It has a weird smell that's a cross between Goodwill, your grandma's house, and old paper. I have one friend who won't even go to this store because she hates the smell so much. But I love it, because I spent lots of time there as a kid, trying to contain my excitement as I perused the mountains of books before me. For me, this store smells like possibility. As in, today I might discover the best book of my life or a new favorite author. Today might be the day I buy a book that changes my life.

So I breathe that smell in deeply. And I know that many of you out there do the same.

So let's hear from all those book sniffers out there. What is your favorite book to smell? Any book smelling rituals? Best-smelling bookstore? Do you prefer the smell of old or new books? Tell me all your book-smelling secrets!

TEDtalk: "Why a good book is like a secret door" by author Mac Barnett

The last few minutes of this talk inevitably put a smile on my face every time I listen to it. Watch it. Share it. Make your day better. I promise you won't regret it.

Book Review of A Series of Unfortunate Events

I love these books. If I were a kid, I would give these books 5 out of 5 stars. Since I am an adult, they were a bit too easy of a read for e to give them 5 stars. For some reason, that is how my brain works.

What I love about these books is that they are witty. It is rare to find children's books that rely on wit for their humor instead of situational comedy. 

The characters are two-dimensional, the plot isn't complex; it is simply a story of orphans (each with an assigned character trait: one is smart and reads, one is smart and builds things, one is smart and bites things) who are running from an evil man (who is horribly, overtly evil for no other reason than that he is evil) who wants their money. But the fact that the story is overly simple doesn't matter because the narrator/author Lemony Snicket is sly and witty and amusing and doleful. 

Plain and simple plot. Witty narrator. Hilarious stories.

The magic of nonfiction

       

  Two Christmases ago my husband bought me a new journal. Its spine was stiff, the pages yellow and filled with empty gray lines, waiting for the magic of pen touching to paper, connecting thoughts with words and becoming matter. The blank page has always inspired me. More exciting even than beginning to fill it up was when I got a new notebook or journal and I sat down and decided what I wanted to use it for: Lists? Hopes and dreams? Learning? Poetry? Stories? Often, the notebooks became a mishmash of all these things, like our lives are, a combination of the mundane and extraordinary, the prosaic and the whimsical.

Despite my obsession with blank pages, I viewed my own life as more of a fill-in-the-blank type of story. Or possibly one of those choose-your-own-adventure books. I fully acknowledged that my choices impacted my future and shaped who I became; I didn’t acknowledge that my choices were almost limitless. I could never be a rock star, for instance. I was both too practical and too talentless. That was not an option for me. I could never move to New York and work in the publishing field; that was too far from the familiar safety of the west coast and far too competitive of a career – I would be like Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada, only with books instead of clothes. That just didn’t seem like it would ever happen to me.

Then one beautiful winter day…everything changed.

Until this particular day, I upheld a secret, unuttered oath never to read and enjoy nonfiction, especially of the “self-help” variety (condescension dripping from every unuttered syllable). December of 2013 I saw a video online about the 10 item wardrobe and I thought, “how very minimalist and what a perfect excuse to spend money on nice clothing.” I found a book that described the 10 item wardrobe, along with many other suggestions for how to live your life and (gasp!) I requested it from the library (I couldn’t buy it, it was nonfiction) and my oath was snapped in two because I accidentally enjoyed it.

It wasn’t quite a self-help book; it was more a book of…lifestyle suggestions. I read it and was completely taken in. It was inspiring. I felt the tingling of possibility. I felt like boring little me, the girl who will never be fashionable, who rarely wears make-up, who lives a humble life that no one particularly admires could become Storybook Me, the girl who has always existed in my mind as a daring, confident young woman who surrounds herself with beauty and is admired by men and women alike for her simple but stylish dress and unassuming but lovely appearance. It was intoxicating and addicting. What other inspirations waited for me in the world of nonfiction? What other books might expand this chink that I had made in my concept of myself? Could I possibly chip away until this small crack became a large passage, allowing light to flood in and reveal my hidden potential?

I won’t go through every evolution that followed this initial affair with nonfiction. The long and the short of it was that I found myself gravitating toward books that offered me guidance: books on pregnancy and parenting, books on spirituality, books on friendship, and books on self-acceptance. Slowly, even as I became disgruntled with one book, unimpressed by another, bored by some, and swept away by some, I began to change the way I viewed myself and my life.

By far the most influential of all these was the book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller. It was this book that taught me that life was what you made it; your story was yours, completely, and if you didn’t like the story you were living, you could and should change it. Dream big, this book whispered. Stop aiming low.

To a certain extent, the fill-in-the-blank story still feels true to me, despite all that I’ve learned. We are born into a certain social class, with specific demographic information working for or against us. But too many of us fall into these lives that we feel born into without ever stopping to ask if this is really what we want. There are many things that we dream of doing, but feel, that couldn’t possibly happen to me. Other people get published, other people start nonprofits, other people…Not me.

This journey through the world of the realistic, the oh-so-drab world of nonfiction, has taught me that my own reality can be as magical as any piece of fiction. My life is a blank page, an empty canvas. The difference between other people and me is that they were willing to try and pursue their dream; they didn’t assume that it couldn’t happen to them. Life, it turns out, is not like the board game – you don’t get a list of finite options and then spin a wheel to see if you get lucky. (With 30k a year, I better marry a doctor! I won’t be a billionaire at this rate and will probably have to review other retirement options at the end of the game!)

There is no wheel of fortune. There is just a notebook filled with empty lines, and every day from the moment you wake up, you make your imprint on those pages, inking in your identity, your world, your stories.

Book Review: Ender’s Game By Orson Scott Card

Three things you need to know about this book:

 1. The protagonist is a 6 year old child (it starts when he is 6) who is quite possibly wiser than I am.    
 2. I would categorize this book as epic science fiction. Because it’s epic.
3. This book is action-packed, but still has room for moments that make you want to cry. It deals with some mature themes - some of which might be lost on a younger audience. Watch out though. As soon as you start getting choked up, strap in, because the next thing you know you will be following an epic and incredibly intelligent battle game, all tears forgotten.

Plot synopsis that in no way does the story justice:

Ender is chosen to go to Battle School, a school for genius children to train for battle (who would’ve guessed?). What Ender doesn’t know, at first, is that he was chosen as mankind’s last hope to save earth from the buggers (aliens) – if he can survive the training and achieve his potential.

What I loved about this book:

Ender. He is smart – a genius – and often lonely. He is compassionate and ruthless at the same time. He doubts himself, growing in some incredible ways, and yet in other areas, stubbornly refusing to see things the way they are, or to grow or change at all – something that is profoundly true to life.

The battles. I can’t explain them, you just need to read them. Ender’s brain works out intelligent battle plans, sometimes in-the-moment. I was frequently astonished at the lucidity of his choices and the way he viewed things differently than others – something that caused his battle plans to be creative and surprisingly effective. Few authors can describe a battle and keep me interested. (Sorry, I know that is maybe girly of me, but I get bored with troop movements. Maybe that is why I never play Risk.) To date, there are only a few authors who have captured my interest in this area:  J.R.R. Tolkien is one; Orson Scott Card is another.

I’m a cynic at heart. I really am. I’m not all in-your-face about it like I was when I was a teenager, but I’m still very cynical deep inside (I just call it practicality now). This book appealed to the cynic within me. I can’t say more without giving important plot points away, but if you too like cold harsh reality (of made -up future worlds of course – not really real cold harsh reality) then you will appreciate this book.

I would recommend this book to children in middle school all the way up to adults of all ages.Younger kids wouldn't really be able to follow the plot, which is somewhat complex. There is some violence, but overall Card delivers a beautifully complex message about violence and war.

7 Reasons Why You Need to Read the Harry Potter Series (*cough* for my sisters)

1. The magic. It doesn’t matter how old you are, there is something charming and delightful about the idea of magic. Rowling does it complete justice – it is never overly simplistic, it is never too easy, and it is always incredibly brilliant. I know some of you are refusing to read it because magic isn’t real; that is utter nonsense. Clearly you have forgotten that decades ago, most of our current technology would have been considered “magical,” and there is still a lot in the world that can’t be explained. So if you believe in any unproven scientific hypothesis, then by extension, you have to believe in magic. You don’t really have an option.

2. It is a national bestseller ten times over. If you haven’t read it yet, you are probably part of the 1% that hasn’t. Don’t be part of the 1%. Yes, I am shamelessly using peer pressure as an argument. Mainly because if you read 50 Shades of Gray – “just to see what all the hype was about” – then you can read Harry Potter.

3. Life is awful. Really awful sometimes. I can’t understand people who only like reading books about reality: death, war, despair, lust, and greed – and no happy endings. Take a break every once in awhile. The awfulness will still be there, waiting, once you’ve finished the book. Besides, doesn’t your brain EVER get tired of thinking? Go on a mental vacation into the world of wizards and witches. It is so much cheaper than any staycation – just think how jealous your friends will be when you say you spent a weekend at Hogwarts and they only went to the zoo and the movie theater. I know you are an adult. I know that hippogriffs don’t exist; there is no need to be snobby about it. Hippogriffs can make your life better rather they are real or not.

4. Rowling is funny. Chuckling-to-yourself-out-loud-in-the-coffee-shop kind of funny.

5. Surprising applicability. That’s right, you heard me. The topics, events, and ideas in Harry Potter are actually surprisingly applicable to our world (otherwise known as the wasteland of cold, hard reality). If anyone has told you that these books are all about important ideas such as love and friendship, they are correct, but those topics are not quite as startlingly applicable. Rowling’s discussion of death and grief is incredibly intense, accurate, insightful, and comforting. The parts of the story that I find most powerful are those that deal with the awfulness of the world – death, corruption, evil, selfishness. (Now hold on, you mutter, I thought reading these books would help me escape from these awful truths. Well, I was getting to that…) But through all of these difficult topics, Rowling always manages to give us hope. Hope that great sacrifices can make a difference, hope that death is not the end.

6. Rowling does an excellent job with character development, and not just with the major characters. Anything else I say here will sound cliché (“it’s like the characters are real – like they are your friends – like they are 3D – like everyone else already used up all the words in the world to talk about well-developed characters and they didn’t save any for me”). So I will leave it at that.

7. World building. The details about the wizarding world are perfect – the smaller the detail, the more delightful it is. From butterbeer to quidditch, from the pamphlets released to the public about protecting your home from Death Eaters to the completely amusing jumble of departments that make up the Ministry of Magic, these glimpses into this alternate universe are one of my favorite parts of reading these books.

Appreciating Voice: The lost art of subtlety

I think I might be living my life backwards. When I was younger, I read the classics: Dickens, Lewis, Tolkien, Collins, Austen. When I went to college I read Faulkner, Hemingway, Morrison, and Shakespeare. I didn’t start reading Harry Potter until I was around 20 and in the last few years I started reading Young Adult books. So I’m definitely regressing.

There is nothing exactly wrong with Young Adult (YA) literature, except that, not surprisingly, I am discovering that I’m too old for it. In this statement I exclude the Harry Potter series because that is one of the most well-crafted beautiful stories of our time. But the rest of the books that cater to the dystopian/fantasy craze that is sweeping the nation are disappointingly lacking. Just the other day I picked up a book that a friend had recommended and I couldn’t even get through the first chapter. It wasn’t that I could tell this was the same story I’d read in every other YA book – as discussed in an earlier blog post, no one really writes new stories – it was something else. There was something missing that wasn’t missing from Rowling’s books. 

So naturally I went back and began rereading the series. While reading, I came across a section that lifted the veil ever so slightly and it was as though I could see Rowling at her desk writing, and chuckling as she did so at the witty words she was penning. (I know she probably uses a computer, but when I picture authors, they are always handwriting the story, usually with a quill and dressed like they are from the 19^th century for some reason.) This happened often when I was reading Dickens as a child. I’m pretty sure the image below was burned into my brain long before I ever actually saw it:

Credit: Google Images

You see, what these YA popular fiction books are missing is voice. Not just those delightful moments where the author can get away with commenting almost directly to the reader, but in general. I know that voice varies depending on point-of-view and a number of other things, and I’m not trying to argue that every author should insert their authorial presence all over the book. I am arguing that stories need a voice (narrative, authorial, anything) like my dog needs food in the morning: without it they are dead.

Since I’ve been reading these rather dull tales crafted for today’s youth, I have realized that there is nothing like the voice of Dickens filling the space after the cruel and unjust act of a character with a rant against the social evils of his day. It is like the chorus of a song, heightening the tension and unifying the reader, the writer, and the characters.

And there is nothing quite like Rowling’s quiet voice asserting that “it is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow time down, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up” (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire 317).

So this is what was missing and I think I know why. 

I had one of the best classes of students last year that I think I am ever likely to have; often, while trudging through Julius Caesar, my students would be sitting with brows furrowed, trying to decipher the language (they were honors students, so I’m not making this up, they really were trying). Shakespeare is a very funny man, so sometimes I would read a line and pause, waiting for them to chuckle. Silence. “It’s a joke guys. It’s ok, you can laugh.” They would look up confused. I’d explain it to them. A rather lame attempt at a laugh would circulate briefly and we’d continue. I don’t blame them in the slightest for not understanding Shakespeare, but I do blame them for missing the humor in easier pieces. I blame them for missing the subtle humor often layered in the tone of a sentence. Because there is a grave result from the fact that much of the younger generations don’t read: they’ve lost the art of subtlety. They are used to everything being violently overt, thanks to sitcoms, televisions, and movies. And with that loss of the understanding of subtlety goes the voice of authors everywhere as they write novels that cater to the youth of today.

I don’t believe that every author should always launch into rants about the state of the world or constantly lift the veil to wink at their reader. But I do think that every author needs a well developed voice that is grounded in the subtleties of tone, that supports their narrative, and, quite frankly, makes their book worth reading. 

Then again, maybe we just need to add laugh tracks to books.